


Blind

by crowdedangels



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 08:54:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12229647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowdedangels/pseuds/crowdedangels
Summary: Maybe it was more about the hour or the second whisky by his hand, but his posture softened and his smile – well, smirk - was more readily available.





	Blind

**Author's Note:**

> Another one found on my harddrive circa 2014. So, again, circa s2/s3?

Donna Paulsen was anything but blind; she had Sherlock-like observational skills and could read the smallest of facial expressions to gleam the juiciest tidbits of a person’s life. Before anyone else, she knew about Rachel and Mike, she knew about Louis’ penchant for mudding and she knew about Norma’s stripper-pole exercise classes.

She would have welcomed blindness with the latter.

When it came to Harvey, try as she sometimes might, she was also not blind. She knew more about him than he knew, and either would really want her to know. But she was also not _blind,_ in the sense that she appreciated – possibly more than most – how the man could fill out a suit. Maybe it was shallow, maybe it was inappropriate, and maybe she should care more.

He had an extensive range of expensive, extremely well-tailored suits at his disposal and the lean muscled body shape to wear them well. She had a mental list, in all honesty, of her favourites. She told herself it was beneficial to them both because she could tell him which suit would be better if he needed to charm a female client (the dark vintage cut with the blue striped shirt), a stubborn judge (dark grey, white shirt, dark turquoise tie) or a closing argument jury (anything with blue to make his eyes pop. She could be more specific if needed).

She had a favourite outfit, but, surprisingly, it wasn’t one of his suits. No, it was anything but. It was him in the office after hours, the majority of the building’s lights turned off save for his office and her desk lamp.

It was after a long day that promised to get longer, him realising his shirt was no longer quite so fresh and standing behind his desk, pulling at his tie and stripping down to the white ribbed vest beneath. His eyes wouldn’t leave his paperwork so he wouldn’t see her watching.

He would get engrossed in a sentence, freezing on the spot after tossing his shirt to the desk. She would get a double-view: the moonlight and city lights shining off taut, bare biceps and the window reflection of the muscled contours of his back.

Eventually, he’d snap back. Mostly. He would be grasping blindly in a draw for a fresh shirt but finding his black sweater that she’d picked up from the dry-cleaners and put away for him. Yes, that was the stuff. Dark, well-fitting, smart but devastatingly sexy – Ralph Lauren knew his market.

His entire demeanour relaxed in clothes like that. Maybe it was more about the hour or the second whisky by his hand, but his posture softened and his smile – well, smirk - was more readily available.

But that smile/smirk triggered the onslaught of flashbacks that she tried so often to keep at bay. The memories of his hands, his tongue; how her wrists fitted between his fingers, how her sheets stuck to her the next morning because of that damned whipped cream.

She would remember how solid his body was, how easily he lifted her against the wall, how he breathed obscenities when she did that thing she did best. She loved mussing that quiff of his, threading her fingers through his hair as his tongue-

“Donna?”

“Muhkerjee called earlier, said he’d meet you there instead of here,” she answered, barely missing a beat despite the flush she was sure was rising to her cheeks. “And Levins’ got the, er, _unknown_ stain out of your suit. I tipped them a bit extra for the inconvenience.”

The smirk was poorly contained, “Good.”

“Still not going to admit to what it was?”

“I’m sure I don’t have the faintest idea,” he said, his face telling her otherwise.

“I’m sure…” She returned her gaze to the stack of papers on her lap, twirling the neon-yellow highlighter between her fingers and crossing her bare feet on the glass table. She shuffled back into the couch, her skirt riding a little higher on her thighs at the movement.

His eyes flicked up, how could they not? Her impossibly long legs were stretched out, her stockings glistening in the low light and triggering the memories. It wasn’t particularly hard to remind him, as much as he tried to deny it to himself and everyone around him. How could you not remember when she was there every day; those tight dresses, hair flowing, coquettish pout and big brown eyes ready at a moment’s notice?

He was staring. Sights, sounds, sensations were flooding back to him; how strong her legs were around his waist, that noise she made when he put them over his shoulders, that thing she did… _Christ_ , that thing. He didn’t know if there was even a word for it, but no one had done it since and he wouldn’t mind it happening again…

“Have you read page 492?” she asked, looking to him from beneath a sheath of copper hair. She knew he was staring.

“I know what you’re thinking, but that’s only good before 2003.” He cleared his throat.

“But didn’t Massachusetts repeal and change it to before 2009?”

His eyes grew wide; a plan forming. “They did… that could work.”

She was walking over to him, flicking back through the pile of papers, “Combine it with page-“

“-129 and argue –“

“-People vs. Selkirk. Judge Walsh is the only judge who might go for it.”

They were silent for a beat, both looking over the papers on Harvey’s desk, hearts beating in anticipation for the next win. He turned slightly, her face just inches from his. He could smell her perfume, see every eyelash as it fluttered against her cheek…see a rosy blush rise up her alabaster skin?

She turned suddenly, licking her lips and perching on the side of the desk. She crossed her legs and looked out to the twinkling lights of the skyline as he sat back in his chair. “Remind me again why you’re not a lawyer?”

“Drama school had better outfits.”

He smiled, “You could be, you know.”

She knew she could; she was intelligent and cut-throat enough, knew how to file motions and lodge appeals and had played every angle of the law in mock trials. But it was never a step she had wanted to take; She was happy as a law secretary and she was _god damn awesome_ at it. She shrugged in response, reaching across the desk and grabbing his glass. “I know,” she said, before bringing the tumbler to her lips and allowing the amber liquid to sear a path down her throat.

He watched her top lip glisten as she pulled the glass away and cradled it in her hands, her tongue snaking out to lick away the moisture.

She could see his reflection staring at her and she questioned if the warmth suddenly flooding her was from the alcohol or from his eyes, from shared memories, from the ever present maybe...

Maybe she was imagining it, but the air seemed to be thicker, like a question or action was waiting for the perfect moment, poised and ready for fate.

“S'getting late,” he eventually announced, deciding he had to go before he did something stupid and jeopardise everything, upset the status quo.

She took another sip before handing back the last gulp of whisky, which he knocked back quickly while standing and shuffling papers together.

“Need a ride?”

She shook her head, sliding her feet back into her heels and closing law tomes she had left on the table. “I'll grab a cab, thank you.”

“Coffee from Sid's tomorrow?”

She smiled, “You know the way to a girl's heart.”

“Night, Donna.”

“Night, Harvey.”

 

 

 


End file.
